Sól
by shattered petal
Summary: Darkness flooded her eyes, and her mask was old and tired. Yet all he realised was how beautiful she was. -HitsuMatsu


**author's note**: Hitsugaya is older in this than he appears in the manga. Again, just another analysis on the relationship between he and Rangiku. This is set quite some time after the Winter War, but, clearly, the events of that period still have an impact. Feedback is always appreciated, and I hope you enjoy.

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**Title**: Sól  
**Genre**: Romance  
**Rating**: T  
**Couple**: HitsuMatsu

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It was a cold evening. The tea was starting to scold his palm, but he didn't notice the pain. Instead, he sat, recounting a memory in his head. Every time, the feeling returned, this odd, foreign sensation which he couldn't fathom. One would advise him to stop thinking so much, there wasn't any point. It was clear as day what was wrong, he just refused to acknowledge the truth.

Blood had pooled the ground, but somehow the two managed to stand and continue. When he turned to check if she was all right, that she was still able to fight, his eyes spotted the gashes and cuts. The deprivation of sleep, the torture of the mind, neglect from food and the simplest element of happiness. Darkness flooded her eyes, and her mask was old and tired. Yet all he realised was how beautiful she was.

Rain pattered against the window, and he finally released the mug. His palm stung, and he pressed the sore flesh onto the table. A familiar spiritual pressure had awoke him from his memories: warm, awfully sad, but a fire. His entire body rose in temperature, which would usually cause great discomfort. Tonight, he merely understood this warmth as a greeting or, more, a warning. Yet the stronger it became, the more miserable he felt, the more his heart started to break.

When he saw her at the door, soaked, they didn't exchange words. She was still wounded from their battle earlier today, but the rain had started to wash away the blood. Tōshirō stepped aside for her to enter, she was freezing, wet and shivering. Communication wasn't required. Hitsugaya guided her to a seat, passed her a towel, and poured her some tea. She took the mug, but didn't have any. Tōshirō bent over slightly to inspect her injuries, brushing a thumb lightly over a cut across her cheek.

Only to one person would she reveal grief. Tōshirō was the victim. Finally, his Vice-Captain was beginning to open up, turn the page, but with difficulty. She needed help. She needed someone to hold her for a moment. Not forever. She was strong, capable; she had pushed through a harsh childhood, and she could manage this. However, her body was broken, abused, and all she needed was a soft touch, an acknowledgment. Many faces came to mind, but none of them mattered. There was only one, and she knew he would be there, almost waiting for her. _He has waited a long time_.

Her eyes were the sky: blue, pure, yet easily hidden. Dark clouds had covered the beauty, and there was thunder, agony, a terrible monster waiting to tear through. A past, a past she had no desire to return. Thousands of doors, so many doors, locked. A sea of mystery. A hurricane, furious and disturbed, destroying anything in its path. The sky. Free, powerful, _screaming_. Her eyes were screaming, burning, Hell.

After years, decades, an eternity, she had ripped away at her mask and shown him the ugliness beneath. It was a horror, and he trembled. He was looking at a portrait, the paint beginning to corrode, its wonderful colours decaying. A knife had been stabbed in the centre and viciously torn down. Looking at her now, he didn't see a lady. He didn't see a naïve wonder woman. He saw a warrior, armour tattered, peeling away, but not just a warrior of battle. A warrior of the heart, because despite the amount of blades plunged into her, the amount of cackles and _grins_, she was still standing.

–– 'I'm so cold.'

A surrender. The weapon clattered to the poisonous earth.

He could taste blood at her lips, could feel scars under his palms, heard her heart, pounding, raging. The warmth she expressed had nothing to do with love, and yet he _burned_ at her touch, melted. A chill was useless, never stood a chance against the sun. Their lovemaking was a storm, a battle between fire and ice and yet they were one. Gradually, the storm faded away, the rain began to slow. Silence. The prince of winter became the summer's slave, became intoxicated, and the sun dominated, ruled, even if her reign merely lasted for a moment.

When their war ceased, he allowed her freedom. Tōshirō sat upright, watched the only woman in the world he would ever come to love leave the room. She had promised to see him tomorrow, to see him at work, to see him amongst the ghosts and shadows. She had promised to retrieve her mask again and wear it, until it dare slip away again. It was only when she smiled did he feel the world shatter around him.

The man would be there for her, always. The man would love her, always. And yet, he was a single snowflake, fluttering in the dust, waiting for the sun to notice. Her heart was stolen a long time ago, back when he was young and naïve, and, now, it was fear which stopped her from offering the gift to another. Even if this other would treasure the gift, treasure her, and every scar which littered her flesh and mind.

Hitsugaya looked out of the window. It wasn't raining anymore. Finally, the sun was beginning to show its bright face from behind the hills and clouds. The freeze had fled, and warmth took control. A constant battle. Never would either stand in triumph, though. Both were much too weak; too fragile.

Next time it rained, Tōshirō would go to her.


End file.
